Sherwood
by Rainnboots
Summary: There were only three things that could keep Kendall at his job as a cart pusher: His mom, his sister, and Logan. Preshow!fic


**Author's Note:** Happy Wednesday! This story was inspired by a submission by **doc-potterywood **that I read on the Tumblr **koganheadcannon** last night. I really liked the idea, and being granted permission by the author, I fleshed out the idea into a full story. This fic is set preshow. This could be considered Kogan, but it could also be read as a platonic bromance fic. It's all up to you. I hope you guys enjoy! As always, **_PLEASE REVIEW!_**

**Disclaimer: **Any recognizable names, places, and/or ideas are the property of their respective owners.

**Warnings:** Slight angst.

* * *

><p>Kendall raked his fingers through his sister's hair, humming under his breath as he desperately tried to ignore the sounds of a fight drifting up from downstairs. Even with the door closed and a whole floor of space between them, he could hear his parents muffled shouts. He wasn't sure how long they'd been arguing, but it was the longest fight he could remember, and he figured it must be the worst, too. They hadn't even noticed when Katie had started crying; Kendall himself had to sneak down the hall from his room, climb into her crib and beg the two year old to stop crying, please, Mama and Daddy might hear you. It'd taken nearly fifteen minutes to calm her down, and she had just now fallen asleep.<p>

Kendall flinched as he heard the front door slam, pulling his face away to look at Katie. She was still sleeping, thankfully, unroused by the sharp noise. Cautiously slipping away from her, Kendall climbed back over the railing, snuck out of the room and took the stairs two at a time.

"Mom?" he called, slipping once on the slick fabric of his pajama bottoms in his haste to locate either one of his parents. "Mom? Dad? Mom!"

Kendall had seen his mother cry before, sure; she had cried when Kendall held Katie for the first time in the delivery room, and when he won his first hockey trophy, and when she watched sad movies, but never like this. Jennifer's shoulders were shaking, and the cries that were spilling out from behind her hands filled Kendall an indescribable feeling of dread. He didn't know what was wrong, but he knew it was bad.

"Mama?" said Kendall, his voice cracking slightly. He stepped across the living room, cautiously sitting on the cushion beside her. "Mama, why are you crying?"

Jennifer took in a deep, shaking breath, ducking her head away from Kendall as she wiped her face. She reached for a tissue on the coffee table, running it under her nose.

"I'm just very sad right now, Kendall," said Jennifer, setting her hand on Kendall's knee.

"What's wrong? Are you sick?"

"No, sweetheart, I'm not sick. I just hurt. My heart hurts."

"Your heart? Why? Should I call nine-one-one?" Kendall asked quickly.

Jennifer let out a weak, watery chuckle, shaking her head. "I don't mean like that. I mean it's hurts because I'm sad."

"'Cause you and Daddy had a fight?"

Jennifer pressed the tissue hard against her eyes. "That's part of the reason, yes."

"Why did he leave?" Kendall asked.

"I don't know, Kendall."

"Well, when is he going to be back?"

Jennifer pressed the tissue hard against her eyes. "I don't know, Kendall."

Kendall looked at the carpet, his forehead wrinkled slightly in thought. His eyes snapped to his mother as she stood up, wiping her nose again.

"Come on, sweetheart, I'll go get Katie and we'll all sleep in my bed tonight," said Jennifer, running her hand through Kendall's soft, shaggy hair.

"But I just got Katie to go back to bed. If you move her she'll wake up again," Kendall said desperately. Jennifer smiled, pulling Kendall close in a hug.

"My little man," she whispered. "You're such a good big brother to her."

"Thanks, Mama," Kendall said quietly, squeezing her waist.

"Now off you go," said Jennifer, kissing the top of his head. "I'll be there in just a minute."

Kendall did as he was told, sinking into the large pillows that lined his parents' headboard as he waited for his mom. Jennifer appeared a moment later, Katie in her arms, wrapped in her favorite blanket. Jennifer laid Katie on the bed then quickly changed into her pajamas, sliding under the covers. Kendall immediately snuggled close, trapping a sleeping Katie between the two of them.

"I love you, Mama," said Kendall, looking at his mother with slightly worried eyes. Jennifer smiled, kissing Kendall's forehead.

"I love you too, sweetheart," she said, wrapping her arm over Kendall's side. "Now try and rest."

Kendall closed his eyes, though he had no intention of sleeping. He feigned sleep for what felt like hours until he was sure his mother wouldn't wake up, then snuck out of bed, tip-toeing up to his bedroom window.

_He'll come back,_ Kendall told himself, staring out into the dark Autumn night. _He always comes back._

Kendall waited up all night, pulling his Spiderman duvet cover off the bed when he got chilly, shifting positions every time he felt himself start to drift off, determined to wait up until he saw the familiar black sedan pull into the driveway. He did the same the next night, and the next night, and the night after that, telling himself everytime that his father was just around the corner. He'd be back any minute.

But his father didn't come back, and no matter how hard Kendall tried to dispute the fact, he never would.

It took Kendall only a week to figure out his father had left for good. He was confused at the beginning, unable to see why his father had left in the first place, but he learned quickly to not ask questions. No matter how many times he asked his mother, she never seemed to have an answer, and it always to make her cry. All she seemed to know is that she now needed to get a job, and Kendall was going to have start helping out around the house a little bit more. Kendall jumped on every chore she gave him, determined to show her just how great of a son he could be. He felt a surge of pride everytime she told him what a good job he'd done, how proud she was of "her little man." It was one night, the summer after sixth grade year, after he stumbled upon his mother crying at the kitchen table over a mountain of bills, that a man he decided to become. He hated seeing his mother tired all the time, the joy gone from her eyes, all her energy and life stolen by the amount of work she took on to help support the three of them. So Kendall did all he could to help earn extra money; he walked dogs, mowed lawns, washed cars, babysat, cleaned pools, cleared attics, did handiwork, even sat and watched classic MLB games with Mrs. Magicowski next door. He would always find a way to sneak the money he made to his mother, going as far as to shove it into the pockets of her coat or drop it into the junk drawer in the kitchen, just so he was sure she got it.

But it wasn't enough. A few dollars couldn't support his whole family. Everything was expensive, and simple neighborhood tasks weren't doing the job. He combed every inch of the town looking for work, but he was still too young. No one would hire a freshman. But then, one day, he picked up a gallon of milk on the way home from school one day, he heard the cashier and the bag boy behind him chatting. The store was looking for new employees. Sherwood hired cart pushers at fifteen — Kendall be fifteen in just over a weeks' time. The pay wasn't great, but he would employee discounts on all the groceries they needed, and it was something, the best thing Kendall could do to help his family.

Kendall spent the day after his fifteenth birthday filling out an application and "learning the ropes," which consisted of being shown where the carts go and being given strict orders to not hit any cars. He didn't mind it so much the first week; it was kind of fun getting to push a yards-long stack of carts across the parking lot, making race car noises under his breath as he swerved the row to avoid the lamp posts, cars, and pedestrians.

Then winter came, fierce and biting, and Kendall quickly grew weary of the job. He began to dread pedalling his bike straight from hockey practice to the store, tying his apron on, slipping on his work gloves, and heading out for his four hour shift. Every minute he spent in the parking lot was another minute he grew more and more resentful, bitter, and angry. It was all he took to keep from marching inside and turning in his uniform. But he had to work, he would tell himself. He had to work.

Kendall's pent up frustration came out on a late Sunday afternoon. Kendall was sitting at Logan's dining room table, his head was swimming with the pages of Algebra II he was having to work through, his vision blurring as he yawned. He'd worked the opening shift at Sherwood that day, pushing carts from six to three, running on a measely four hours of sleep after having gotten home late from an out-of-town hockey game he'd lost the night before. He was desperate for rest, but his grades were already slipping from piling work on top of school, hockey, and everything else. Logan, seeing his struggling friend, had offered to help him out, and Kendall couldn't risk failing. If he failed, he was off the team, and hockey was the only enjoyable thing he had left.

Kendall dropped his pencil, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his fingers hard against his eyes. "I can't do this anymore."

"Yes you can," said Logan. "Look, you're almost done with this set, and it looks like you've done them all right so far."

"No I haven't," said Kendall. "I have no idea what any of those numbers mean, and I _won't_ have any ideas what those numbers mean, no matter how many times I work through them."

"That's not true," Logan said patiently. "You're doing great, Kendall. Just a few more pages and we're done."

"I don't _want_ to do a few more pages!" Kendall grunted, pushing himself away from the dining table and pacing out a few steps, pulling off his beanie and pushing his hand through his hair. Logan tilted his head, watching as Kendall set one hand on his, dropping his head.

"Are you okay, Kendall?" Logan asked finally.

"It's not fair!" Kendall exclaimed, turning on his heel back to Logan and tossing his hat across the room. "I _hate_ working! I hate pushing all those stupid carts at that stupid store every freaking day and I hate having to be an adult and help Mom with money and I hate that my dad left and I just _hate it!_"

Kendall closed his eyes, plopping back down into his chair and putting his head in his hands, breathing heavy. "I want to quit but I can't because if I do I'll be just like him," he muttered. "I can't do that to my family, Logan, not like he did. I want to be better than he was for Mom and Katie but it's just so _hard_."

Pangs of sympathy shot through Logan's chest, his eyes filled with pain for his best friend. Kendall's worst fear, Logan knew, was turning into his father; a quitter, someone who walked out on the people who needed him when things got tough. Though Kendall was twelve times the man his father would ever be, he was constantly worried that one day he would fail his family the way his father did.

"I'm don't want to let them down," Kendall continued quietly, "but I'm just so tired."

Logan let out a quick breath, eyes never wavering from Kendall as a plan quickly formed in his mind. He rose from his chair, moving to the desk in the corner of the room.

"Where're you work gloves?" asked Logan, pulling a felt-tipped marker out from the back of one of the desk's drawers.

"In my backpack."

"Where in your backpack?"

"The front pocket," said Kendall. "Why?"

Logan didn't answer, simply unzipped the front of Kendall's army green backpack and pulling out the padded leather gloves that were inside. He came back to the table, setting the gloves and marker on the table between them.

"Why do you work?" Logan asked. Kendall furrowed his eyebrows, staring at Logan with a confused expression.

"To earn money...?" Kendalll guessed. Logan let out a quick breath, shaking his head.

"Let me rephrase myself: _Who_ do you work for?"

Kendall dropped one hand, keeping the other in his hair. "For my mom and sister."

"Why?"

"So they can have enough money to be happy and comfortable. So they're safe."

"Exactly," Logan nodded. "Now take the marker and write Katie's name on one glove, and your mom's name on the other."

"Why?" Kendall asked, still confused.

"So you can look at their names when you're pushing carts and remember exactly why you're working. To remind you that you're a better man than your father could ever hope to be, and to have the strength to keep working even when you want to quit." Logan pulled Kendall's arm down, forcing the older teen to look at him. "You are _not_ your dad, Kendall. Show him and your mom and your sister and yourself that you're man enough to stick by them, even when it's hard."

Kendall examined his friend's face, taking in the small smile on his lips and the sincere look in his eye.

"Go on," Logan gently urged. With a breath Kendall took the marker, pulling his gloves in front of them and turning them palm up, writing in bright silver letters the name of the only two people who could keep him going. He slipped his fingers inside the gloves, flexing his hands the way he always did to adjust them, and looked down at his hands. With their names staring back at him, Kendall felt a new resolve fill him.

He could keep going, he _would_ keep going, just for them.

Kendall made sure the names never left his gloves. The letters always faded quickly, rubbed off a little bit more with each cart he pushed. But Kendall would retrace them everytime they grew too faint, making sure he never forgot his reason for working.

It was a bitterly cold Friday night, almost a year into Kendall's employment and smack dab in the middle of the longest and coldest winter Minnesota had seen in Kendall's lifetime. His body ached from the violent three-hour hockey practice he had endured earlier that day, and he felt a twist of anxiety in his stomach as he thought on the pile of homework he had to get done by Monday. He stopped moving all together as painful emotion swelled in his chest as he realized he had to wake up at six AM tomorrow to make it to their nine o'clock hockey game. It was almost eleven, and his shift didn't end until midnight. Kendall laid his forearms across the cart handle in front of him, feeling tears of exhaustion and frustration fill his eyes.

He couldn't do this. It was too much. He was just a kid, dammit, he should be allowed to act like one.

Sucking in a breath Kendall pulled his head up, staring at the small, faded letters on the palms of each glove. _Mom_ on the left, and _Katie_ on the right.

Mom and Katie, his family, the people he loved more than life itself, whom he would give and do anything for, the ones who were counting on him to be the man of the house and keep them safe. He could do this, he realized, because he was doing it for them.

Kendall straightened up, grunting as he pressed his weight forward against the twenty-long row of carts, guiding them back towards the metal corral sandwiched in between two parking spaces. Ignoring the ache in his arms, Kendall split the stack into four sets of five, pushing each group into one of the four rail-enclosed sections.

Leaning back against the light post beside him, Kendall tired to catch his breath, quickly worn out by his tired muscles and the frigid winter air. He pulled his beanie lower over his ears, pulling the neck of his sweatshirt up over his face and exhaling deeply, trying to warm his nose and chin. As he pushed away from the light post, ready to head across the parking lot for the next stack of carts, Kendall took a quick glance around the lot, making sure it was empty before he pulled back on the top hem of his apron. Under the flickering yellow light snuck a peek at the name he had scrawled across his apron in dark black marker the day after he'd first written his family's name on his gloves. The name of the person who wasn't relying on him, but was cheering him on. The one who kept him confident that he would make it through, no matter how tough it was. The one he loved.

_Logan_

* * *

><p>Reviews? Anyone? Anyone? ...Bueller?<p> 


End file.
